Passive Aggressive Behavior
by Mythical Element
Summary: Watson is his only friend that puts up with his antics every day. But one of these days, Watson is going to be fed up with Holmes' passive state of mind and Holmes will get aggressive about it. It'll only be a matter of time.
1. Beneath the ash that covered the glass

Disclaimer – Any copy rights in relation to the characters and cases in the Sherlock Holmes series respectively belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and any other affiliates.

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Beneath the ash that covered the glass…

Many days after a case has been solved, my friend always inhabits a lethargic state of being that I grow in trepidation of because that is when he is most dangerous to himself and others. Although unintentional, he condones to the word "normalcy".

If his mind is not put up against a challenge of some sort, like the mystery of a case that he deems worthy of his attention or a scientific breakthrough that he conjures up from his experiments, then he resorts to other means that I can't understand why. Such as violin playing that ranges from soft melodies that even I find soothing on most nights to eerie scales, allowing me no sleep, leaving me feeling as though I am being haunted by the hopelessness of a violinist that is seeking solace. On another note, I am still surprised our dear landlady hasn't woken yet to the sounds to berate him for it, which I have done on numerous occasions. I commemorate her for being such a heavy sleeper.

With his experiments, he really only effects himself and the subjects that he works with, which I do not question anymore because most of it I can't fathom the reasons he has beyond the cogs working out in his mind. So I ignore most of whatever he does in that chemistry lab of his. However I would find bottles or instruments missing from my medical bag and I knew exactly what, rather who, the culprit was…

"Do I even want to inquire as to what you are doing with my stethoscope?" I sigh out from the settee with my elbow weighing down on the arm and my hand obscuring half my face. I glance sideways at the profile of Holmes through my fingers with a resigned defeat of the matter.

After a moment passes by with Holmes crouched down beside Gladstone, the poor dog unconscious yet again by the wall of the staircase, he presses the chest piece against Gladstone's heart and inserts the ear buds in his ears. He's concentrating on the pulse of his canine friend then he stands up with a nod and places the chest piece against his own heart. For what I am not certain when it comes to Holmes, because the obvious simply isn't good enough when it comes to that man. He's looking straight ahead, eyes focused in on the rhythm of his heart when he finally gives me an answer to my question.

"I assure to you it is nothing remotely hazardous as you are suggesting from your question old boy." Holmes' statement doesn't reassure me in the least. He's definitely up to something, that I am not sure of yet, and Gladstone is obviously a part of his newest 'break-through for man-kind' as Holmes would say. He removes the chest piece after memorizing his heart rate and his eyes finally meet mine. A sly smile passes his face after he sees the curiosity evident in my eyes, although I try hard not to show it. I need not ask for the reasons behind whatever he is doing because he is sure to answer. I take my hand away from my face, giving him my undivided attention.

"Did you know Watson that the normal heart rate of a dog is nearly twice as fast as the normal rate of a human's?" He walks towards the chair adjacent to where I sit and sprawls upon it as he recites his most recent discovery that has caught his attention. I lean forward in the settee and place my elbows on my knees, wondering where Holmes is going about with the notion. I look at him with the buds still in his ears, staring out of the corners of his eyes at me. If any person were to walk in this room and see him like that they would assume _he_ is the doctor.

"Yes Holmes." I say jadedly. Holmes starts to roll the cord between his fingers while he looks down in contemplation.

"Why just the other day it came to my attention that the dog here had ingested a mix of chemicals that I was not aware of and–" I immediately cut off Holmes there, my eyes widening in dismay. I know where this is going and cuff my hand over my chin in frustration. That "_I was not aware of_" indeed.

"Just tell me that you did not kill _our_ dog this time, Holmes." I watch him freeze and look up at me in swift astonishment at my accusation, as if he would do such a thing. I know him well enough that he would not do it on purpose. At least I hope he would not. Holmes lay further against the seat, looking more like an overgrown child, before he picks up the end of the Stethoscope and begins tapping a soft beat against it with a finger. He begins again where he left off in his recent discovery.

"–_and_ _our_ dog must have been on to something because I swore it wasn't just sleeping anymore, Holmes misses a beat in the rhythm he created and clears his throat, however I went to make sure that wasn't the case with dear old Gladstone and there it was. His heart rate was there, but it was extremely slow Watson. I nearly missed it." Holmes slows down each tap he makes against the chest piece until he came to a stop, to emphasize the point. Suddenly he sits up straight and turns in my direction. He's grinning like a mad man, like he's about to reveal a grand scheme. For some reason, it pikes my curiosity but I keep my face collected as Holmes starts again.

"Remember the Blackwood case, my good doctor?" Holmes waves the chest piece at me, smirking all the while. I frown. Oh yes, as if I could ever forget. The only mistake I made as a doctor of medicine. The whole charade could have been disastrous to my career and thank god that crazy man was put away. For good.

"Let's say that I made a solution similar to what Lord Blackwood had used to fake his own death and fool even a doctor like yourself." Holmes pauses in moving the chest piece around in the air and glances at my face. The reminder from Holmes strikes a cord. The man on the table was dead. I heard no heart beat. No breaths of air. He was presumably dead–wait. The first part of what Holmes said just came to mind and I couldn't believe it. Of all the idiotic ideas Holmes could come up with–

"Holmes, you didn't." Dread is seeped in my voice. Holmes disregards me with a wave of his hand. As if there's nothing wrong with what he's doing.

"Yes Watson, I have. And its effects in the human body are actually quite astounding you know. I can't say for certain when the heart stops, because I was 'dead to the world' as Mrs. Hudson said the other day. The old bat actually thought I was dead Watson. But I believe she was using sarcasm in that remark. Though from a medical stand point it would seem very much so that I was 'dead'. If I had to hypothesize a time of death and a 'revival' time based on–" I heard enough.

"You tested it on yourself? Have you gone **mad** Holmes? Whatever you mixed together and put in your bloodstream could have irreversible damage on your heart and bodily functions. It is bad enough that you injected our dog with it, Gladstone's probably immune by now to most of the chemical compounds you give him anyway."

I couldn't sit any longer. I pace lamely towards Gladstone and stop to look down at him. Poor boy. Then I turn around, seething at Holmes. I'm not done yet.

"What if you hadn't woken up? What then Holmes? Did you even think for a second about the consequences of your actions? I would have come home yesterday to see my friend's cold body on the ground and I would be the one performing his post-mortem examination! I'd owe one of the greatest minds I've ever known that much at least."

I give Holmes a dismal smile. Does he not understand there are others that worry for his self-being? I can't help but fear for the man. Holmes is surprised by my sudden outburst but he regains his composure. He swings the stethoscope back and forth in the air as he speaks.

"In order to gain results, one must conduct test for their theories so I did. I do believe I am a bit of a mad scientist but I am not crazy enough to try something that would kill me, a pause with the scope in the air, well permanently. So I knew I would wake up sooner or later and draw conclusions on my newest theory, which I also did. I thought of what the results could be based on scientific fact and reasoning Watson, so I had the experiment under control." Holmes answers each one of my questions logically. He thinks there is no error in his judgment. That is where he is wrong.

"That is not the point Holmes! You could have **died**! You would be dead and gone and I wouldn't be able to do a thing about it besides arrange for a funeral and mourn for my lost friend!" I yell into my stethoscope that Holmes is waving around in his eagerness, enraged at his lack of self-preservation. Holmes cringes from the boom of my voice caused by the ear buds then looks down at his lap. His face is impassive. He's waiting for whatever I have to say next, bearing himself. Enough scolding. I've had it for today. I relinquish my stethoscope from his ears and hand, Holmes barely flinches, and I tuck it inside my coat pocket. Holmes' voice is repentant and sincere when he says,

"It's all in the name of science Watson, you know I would never accidently or otherwise fatally harm myself or Gladstone, so I regret all the grief I have been causing you at the moment." He pulls off little pieces of cotton methodically off the chair's arm, eyes locked on the aimless task, not even one glance in my direction.

I can not even stay angry for long. I sigh and absentmindedly massage my wounded leg. I suppose that is the closest I will ever hear of a direct apology from the man. I will admit, Holmes may be right about his previous statement but he doesn't realize the hurt it causes to me. Not physically, but the hopelessness I feel whenever he feels the need for a stimulus from boredom.


	2. There was a glint of light

…

"Why must you always resort to this Holmes?" My question left in the air as the man that I am speaking to is spread out on the floor in front of the fireplace, with his glassy eyes towards the ceiling. I stand but a couple meters away, using the chair that Holmes was sitting in last to lean against. My right hand is in tight grip around my cane, the other tucked in the pocket of my pants. I look to my left and there sat a clear bottle of whiskey. Uncorked and half empty. Two syringes lay next to the bottle, not a single drop inside of them. And there is the violin. Propped up against the bottle. One of the strings is broken, the ends curled away from each other. I turn my eyes back to my friend on the floor. It's not a strange occurrence for me to see him laying there, in some kind of drug and alcohol stupor, but what angers me is the reason "why".

Holmes turns his head toward me, eyes widening and looking around in bewilderment for a moment but then he smiles at me. Ah ha, so he sees that he is with me. At home. So no harm done.

"I take it the heavy rain today didn't cause any delay, seeing as you have managed to get here earlier than usual." Holmes assesses my wardrobe and my person then nods to himself, satisfied in finding an answer.

"You took that short cut from work which leads onto the main street then jogged, nay ran to avoid the onslaught of rain then hailed a cab, from there you hurried inside to look for me. Your eyes show a lack of sleep, probably from thoughts of yesterday's conversation and they tell that you are worrying about something." He says in that analytic voice of his while he sits up, back hunching over and his arms crossing loosely over his lap.

"If it is about my short brush with death, there is no need to worry. As you can see I am well alive, he holds his arms outwards for show then drops them back in his lap, and I do not plan on being on death's doorstep anytime soon so unless that is all I bid you a goodnight then. " He ends on a bitter note. I almost didn't catch it if I wasn't looking at him, mostly at his dark eyes. The nerve of this man. For being the most brilliant mind I've come to know, I want to whack him over and over in the head with my cane. I go with the closest thing instead.

I grab the neck of the bottle with my left hand and pitch it right into the fireplace, narrowly missing the back of Holmes' head. The flames burst into excitement then die down with a hiss. Flickering ashes remain in the hearth, the shattered glass blackening from the diminished fire.

"And I am the one that has gone **mad**?" Holmes balks, recalling what I said from our previous conversation. He glances at the fireplace, a look of mourning upon his face for the waste of a good whiskey. Good riddance then.

"Holmes, I just…you can be insufferable, you know?" I take a few steps towards him and stop. "I took that short cut in hope of getting home earlier, which you deduced right, because I was worried and wanted to speak with you before you began your incessant hobby." I wave at the fallen violin and empty syringes behind me. "But I see I came too late for that." The man just infuriates me so. I can see the smoldering ash reflect in his eyes as he turns slightly to look me. His hands curl into fists. Poised and ready.

"Oh? Well speak then Watson, since I am done partaking in my _hobby_ for the night but you may want to be fore warned. I may not be responsible for any of my actions if you wish to continue this conversation."

I am stunned. And I let it show too. Holmes is actually threatening me with violence. He's glowering and even though he is sitting there like a petulant child, there is the boxer that I know too well in there waiting. I may be a trained (medical) soldier but I know a fight against Holmes would be folly, worst with this bum leg of mine. However, if Holmes wants a fight, he will get one.

"I don't understand why I even put up with you in the first place!" I strike the floor with my cane then point it at Holmes. "You inject potentially dangerous substances in your system and our dog's, without my consent for the tools and drugs from my bag, and leave yourself to chance, to test whether or not a concoction could render you unconscious, practically _dead_, so that you can prove that it's a viable solution." I place my cane back on the ground, leaning forwards on it. "For what, no one may ever know. You are always foolhardy Holmes. Ready to venture into anything that can capture that mind of yours. And I am the one trailing by your side, getting caught in the foray as well and mending any wounds that we may recieve. I am with you, no matter the consequences, to solve injustices and to close cases. Not only that, but I look out for your well-being. And it's not because of duty or any of the like. I choose to help and care for you because I am your **friend**. So go on, take a hit."

I give him that opening. But he just sits there, staring at me with smoky eyes. Good, the fire is gone but the tension is still there.

"I worry and fear for **you **Holmes, because you surely do not. Do not try to refute it either because you know the truth." I walk pass him, limping with my cane, towards the stairway. Before I step foot upwards, I hold the railing and turn my head to the left. Holmes had gotten closer to the fireplace. He sits cross-legged, with his hands back in his lap. He stares at it. He's definitely contemplating something. What exactly? I will never know.

"Goodnight Holmes." I say quietly then make my way up the stairs to retire for the night. Nothing will change when it comes to that man. His mind is always fixed in a logical pattern that only he, himself, understands…a thought occurs in my mind just before I get comfortable enough to sleep. Something I noticed about Holmes right before I turned away. I believe that I saw the man _smiling_. Bah. I turn over and begin to dream…

…

'Watson may be right, yet again…' I let my gaze linger inside the hearth. The broken bottle left a dried dark stain on the grainy stone's surface, along with shards of glass that are imbedded in the cracks. I reach out with one hand and begin to carefully pull the larger pieces out of the stone, letting them fall into the ash and I scrape what smaller ones I can with my fingers. My other hand in my lap is trembling. Never have I had a conversation with Watson that almost led to a physical fist fight between us. I'm glad though that Watson wasn't within my arm's distance. Because I could've swung at his face, disarmed his cane, hit at his weaker leg to stagger him then slammed my palm upwards into his chest, effectively putting him on the ground. Scary, what the mind can think of when one is angry. But he did not come any closer and after he spoke the facts, his words made a point.

I sit back to look at the ash again, finishing my task. The ash is still burning because I felt the heat against my forearm while I was plucking the glass away. I note that some of the shattered glass in the hearth reflects the light from the lantern left burning on the table. The rest of it is all covered from soot from the fire. I bend forward so that my face is nearly parallel with the bottom of the hearth and inhale a deep breath.

The smaller pieces of glass and loose ash scatter around, some pieces tumble outwards and the hearth shimmers with freckles of light as I blow out. I lean back to my previous position and watch the yellowish orange glows from the glass bounce its way inside the hearth, creating dots of light here and there. I admit it is a pretty sight. My mouth quirks into a smile and the reflected lights dance in my eyes.

…And the truth is Watson. I certainly do care. But "_The end justifies the means"_ in my case.

…

…I open my eyes and puff out erratic breaths. Cold sweat is soaking my skin and seeping into my night clothes. I stare at the ceiling for a few moments, letting the unpleasant dreams of the war drift away. The memories of those dying from having their limbs blown off and their cries of pain still haunt me till this day. I glance out the window. Still dark and it's cloudy, although I can still make out the waning moon underneath the moving clouds. I turn so that I lay on my stomach, gripping under and around my pillow to bunch up around my head. I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep…My eyes open again. Then I turn on my side, away from the door and try to get comfortable…No point in trying to close my eyes this time. I'm restless. I sit up and swing my feet onto the floor, a brief dizziness washes over me from moving too fast. I gain my bearings then stand up, shifting my weight so most of it is on my good leg then walk lamely towards the door.

I confess that I am still worried for my friend as I slowly make my way down the stairs. Two restless nights in row. Because of Holmes. I tell myself that I am just making sure that Holmes isn't doing anything else rash during this night to put my mind at ease. (Of course it is a lie.) I'm his friend, really his only friend that puts up with his madness everyday and as his friend I want to make sure he's alright. I never saw such hostility from Holmes directed at me before tonight. If I was a stranger, I'd say it was quite frightening. But he is my comrade. I will not leave him alone.

I stand near the bottom of the staircase, still holding onto the railing as I do a quick study of the room. It's still the same as before, no other destruction besides from earlier, which gives me a bit of a surprise. And there he is. Sleeping upright in front of the fireplace. He's sleeping mostly in the same position as I had last seen him, except that his head is lolled to one side, back slouched over and his neck looks to be at an uncomfortable angle but he's sleeping soundly. I shake my head in astonishment. The man sleeps on his lab table, the chair, the rug, anywhere else besides his actual bed on most nights. It really should not surprise me anymore but there he is, again.

There's a chill down here now that the fire's gone out and I go to retrieve the pillow and blanket from the settee, Mrs. Hudson figures his habits just as much as I do. I let the pillow and blanket fall to ground besides Holmes then I sit down on my knees behind Holmes, coaxing him to lie down. Holmes is murmuring nonsense in his sleep but other than that he complies with me. His head nestles into the pillow, his arms curl towards his chest and his legs are bent at the knees, crossed over each other. Like a sleeping boy. I puff out in amusement while I throw the blanket over him and tuck it around him. He'll end up making himself into a cocoon anyway. I stand up to head back up the stairs but a whisper stops me before I could turn.

"It shines Watson…told you so."

Holmes' voice startles me but I take a closer look at his face and see that he's softly snoring. I make my way back to my bed. What a strange man. I have no idea what he is talking about now. I do not recall talking about any "shining" objects with Holmes in any of our recent conversations so he must be dreaming…another thought occurs in my mind just before I drift into sleep. Something I saw was sparkling in the hearth that was not there before. The ashes were twinkling with light from the lantern. I wonder…no. I'm tired. I need some rest. I turn over and dream again.

…

…there was a glint of light. Just enough for him to see.


End file.
